"Just another dream," Larson muttered. He rolled to a sitting position and refastened the sword to his belt. Sweat dripped from his hair.
Gaelinar grunted disinterestedly and returned to his bedding. Brendor comforted Larson in a childish soprano. "I have nightmares, too. I used to lie real close to Uncle Crullian and tell him about them. He said if I told someone, I wouldn't ever have the same bad dream again."
Now more accustomed to flashbacks, Larson recovered his composure quickly. He stared at Silme, both pleased and discomforted by her anxious expression. "Describe the dream," said the sorceress softly. "Your last vision detailed our quest."
"I don't think:" Larson trailed off. Only a fool could surrender such an opportunity. "Fine. But I want to talk to you alone."
Silme pinched her lip between her fingers. For some time, Larson received no reply except the low-pitched hum of mosquitoes. Eventually, the sorceress nodded assent and gestured toward the brush beyond camp. She passed through the sparse undergrowth with no more noise than a summer breeze. Apprehensively, Larson jumped to his feet and followed her into the twilight haze of the forest.
Once beyond sight and sound of their companions, Silme confronted Larson with silent forbearance. Though half-hidden in shadow, her face reflected the same distress Larson had recognized at his bedside. "The dream?" she reminded him politely.
"Dream," repeated Larson vacantly. Sunrise lit glimmers of gold in Silme's hair. Wind pressed the fabric of her dress tight against her finely-sculpted breasts. She held a pose of self-assurance and command, but her eyes imparted interest as well as concern. Suddenly Larson felt awkward as a teenager on his first date. "It seems I: my sword:" A rush of passion spoiled his compo-sure. "Silme, I love you," he blurted without preamble.
Silme's lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. An answering warmth flashed through her eyes and quickly disappeared.
Caught in a swirl of joyous emotion at the realization that Silme might actually share his affection, Larson caught her to his chest. Her body went taut as wood against him. Her hand snaked free and lashed across his face. Larson staggered, as much from shock as pain and stared with wide-eyed innocence.
"How dare you!" Silme's indignation cut Larson like a blade. "I'll not suffer the touch of a rogue who would worry friends to maneuver a woman alone!" She whirled with an anger that whipped her hair in a golden wave and stormed toward the camp.
Crushed by Silme's rejection and sick with embarrassment at his brazen approach, Larson rubbed his aching cheek. As the sorceress stomped into the shadows, he called after her in a voice weak with humiliation. "Silme. Please wait."
She continued as if he had not spoken. The details of her retreating form became lost among the trees.
"Wait." Larson shifted from foot to foot and pressed his one remaining advantage. "I want to talk about Vidarr."
Silme hesitated.
Larson continued with a valiant attempt at resolve which could not hide his tension. "I know how to contact Vidarr."
Silme turned, too concerned about the fate of her god to ignore any source no matter how unlikely. Her manner was stiff and threatening as a crouched tigress. Yet her features held a stunningly feminine vulnerablity which awakened Larson's desires despite his attempts to hold his emotions in rein. "If this is another ruse, I swear I'll kill you," she said coldly.
From another woman the challenge might have seemed ludicrous, but Silme had proven herself quite capable of lethal magics. Larson shivered and pressed his lips in a noncommittal line. "It's truth. I've spoken with Vidarr."
Silme scowled warningly.
Quickly, Larson detailed his story, the sequence of mixed reality and illusion which had threaded through his mind since nightfall. As he spoke, Silme's pinched face relaxed to nearly accepting warmth. But her arms remained crossed, and her fists tightened against the fabric of her cloak. From the corner of his eye, Larson caught Silme staring at him with strangely tender sympathy. But whenever he met her glance, she turned her face away like a star-struck school girl found examining the object of a crush.
"So you see, Vidarr's been with us all along." Larson swallowed, both confused and intimidated by Silme's odd behavior. "I guess I can't expect you to believe me. I'm never quite certain when to believe myself. I:" Larson stopped speaking as he realized proof swung from his hip. He pulled Valvitnir from its sheath so abruptly Silme recoiled. "Here. Speak with him yourself." He offered the hilt to the sorceress.
Larson's mind tingled from a blast like static. An idea glided gently though his thoughts. Allerum. You're the only one who can communicate with me.
"What!" Larson screamed aloud. Silme startled again. "What do you mean?" he challenged the sword.
"I: I said nothing," Silme stammered.
Silme's mental defenses are too strong for my intrusions, Vidarr explained. I told you before. You lack mind barriers. That's why Freyr chose you.
Damn. Larson returned the blade to its scabbard, hand heavy against its jeweled hilt. Now what do I tell Silme?
" Allerum. Are you well?" Silme reached for Larson. He cringed reflexively, though her touch was gentle on his shoulder. "What's happened?"
"Vidarr can only speak with me." Grieved by his discovery, Larson did not notice the change in Silme's demeanor. "Now you'll never trust me." He spoke more to himself than to the sorceress. Then, in a rush of emotion, he continued quickly, "I suppose I really can't blame you. But I've loved you almost since the day we met. When I told you how I felt, hope made me think you returned my affection. I'm sorry I grabbed you, Silme. It was all a stupid misunderstanding." Larson gathered a great breath and released a sigh so loud it nearly obliterated Silme's whispered answer.
"There was no misundertanding."
Larson caught his breath. "What did you say?"
Silme met Larson's gaze for the first time since he'd confronted her in the brush. "I do love you. I:" She turned away with a lowered head, her face buried in her palms.
Larson hovered, uncertain. He wanted desperately to hold and comfort Silme, yet memory of her warning stayed him. Touching the sorceress against her will could well prove fatal.
Silme looked up. Her eyes were miserably red, yet tearless. "Someday," she began with an obvious attempt to be tactful. "I want to have children."
Confusion strained Larson's smile. "That would suit me, too."
"But it can't be with you," Silme continued. "And we mustn't start something we can't finish."
Larson opened his mouth, but found himself unable to speak. He stared at Silme's face which seemed to shine like a second sun as dawn dispelled all darkness but the shadows of trees and ferns.
"You don't understand." Silme seemed troubled by his ignorance.
Larson stroked his sword hilt while he searched his mind for a reply.
"You're an elf," Silme prodded softly.
It always seemed such a simple thing to remember, yet Larson continued to forget he was no longer a man. Doubts rushed upon him like a plague. Once before he had wondered whether elves and humans could interbreed, a question pushed aside by the many adventures and wonders of Silme's world. Now, if he was to, believe the sorceress, their union was impossible. But even through a haze of frustration and sorrow, Larson discovered a flaw in his conclusion; he wondered why Silme attempted to dupe him with biological falsehoods. "I may be from another world, but I'm not a fool. I know elves and humans can have children together. Your half brother:"
Silme wrung her hands with a fresh aura of distress. "That's the problem, don't you see?"
"No."
Silme paced. "Our children would be half-breeds like: Bramin."
"No!" Larson's denial held the authority of a command. "Bramin's father was a dark elf. His demon blood ruined your brother."